


Water Me

by DarkGreenPoop



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Begging, Bottom Original Percival Graves, Crying, Hurt, M/M, Original Percival Graves is a Softie, Sock Garters, We Need to Talk About Kevin!Credence, Workaholic Original Percival Graves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 23:51:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10582047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkGreenPoop/pseuds/DarkGreenPoop
Summary: Credence rather enjoys his life as a celebrity, what with the caviar and the women. So why is it that he would risk throwing it all away for the chance to watch one stoic, middle-aged fan weep in his hotel room?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Graves is adorable. If I were a teenage pop star and Graves were my fan I would prey on the poor thing too
> 
> IDK im a sick person don’t ask
> 
> I’m thinking that without terrible life experiences and a shaming Catholic upbringing to hold him back, Credence becomes a full-blown _We Need to Talk About Kevin_ type human being, with the same fascination with Graves that he has as repressed!Credence.

“Nice to see you again,” the man states, stepping past a red-faced and shaking teenage girl. Credence grins at her as she leaves and shouts: “I love you Credence Barebone! I fucking love you!” He turns to the man.

“Percival, is it?” Credence looks up at the suited man’s trim waist and then at his lovely features. The man’s mouth is a straight line, nearly a frown, but he holds out a copy of Credence’s album.

“Thank you for remembering. Would you sign?” Percival’s arm holds steady. His face is unmoving.

Credence smiles at him, and Percival continues to stare pointedly at the album. 

_You middle-aged fuck,_ Credence thinks. _Look at me when I’m talking to you._ Percival places the album on the desk beside Credence. Credence picks up a marker and opens the album case. 

“Would you write your initials rather than your full name?” Percival asks. “The last time the letters weren’t very clear.” 

A flash of hot irritation pulses in Credence’s chest, and he feels his smile grow rigid. “Yes, of course, wouldn’t want you to have to put on your reading glasses.” 

Percival looks at him and smiles--smiles, for the first time since Credence has started to see him at his fan meetings. His dark eyebrows lift, his eyes shine and his mouth curls into a smallness that Credence wants to _devour_. To Credence, he looks vulnerable where before he was a wall. 

“Exactly. How did you know?” Percival replies, like Credence is so good to think of him. His eyes rest, finally, on Credence’s, his countenance personable and sweet. Credence wants to tie Percival down--have him beg for Credence to _stop_. 

Credence writes his phone number down beneath his initials, and winks.

\--

_Hi._

Credence stares at the message from an unknown number. He leans back against his hotel room chaise. He taps at his bottom lip. 

_Sup, Percival_

His phone stays silent for a few moments. Credence picks up his wine glass. He sips. He tilts his gaze to his television, and unmutes Greta Garbo. 

Ten minutes into _Ninotchka_ , Percival still hasn’t responded. Credence’s nails dig into velvet. His phone pings.

_I like your early work. The new album is nice, too._

“I’m going to choke you,” Credence mutters. His new album is overproduced garbage, the very definition of selling out. His early work was wholly his work, but nobody bought it. His fingers clench into fists, shredding wisps of velvet and jamming them beneath his nails in the process. 

_Let’s get to the point, Percival. You know where I’m staying, don’t you? Room 915B. Tell them your name, and they’ll let you in._

_I can’t. I have work._

It turns out that Percival works in finance, and stays up late into the night. He can’t make it, he’ll be up at 4 a.m. tomorrow. Sundays are his catch-up days. Credence steps into his shower and imagines Percival against the tiles, Credence standing an inch taller and bruising his hips with a tight grip. Percival shivering, squirming, asking for more, asking for less, wanting to go home. Credence denying him and undoing him, muffling his sobbing with broad hands. Credence pressing the wrecked mess of him into the wall and taking what he wants. 

When Credence finishes, panting, he dresses himself and looks Percival up. 

Percival graduated from MIT, with a double major in chemical engineering and computer science. He isn’t smiling in his LinkedIn picture. His profile is a list of accomplishments, and it appears he holds a high position at a firm he has been working for since graduation. He does something complicated with computers to invest, and Credence is utterly bored by this facet of the man. This is a powerful older man who is accomplished in every way, and he doesn’t smile. 

This isn’t the man who waits hours for a chance to interact minimally with a pop star. Credence smirks. 

\--

_Guess what I’m thinking about right now_

_It’s 2 a.m. Credence. I’m in bed._

_What are you wearing?_

The pause in their conversation holds for a bit, and Credence ignores the affected sigh from the girl between his legs.

_I don’t understand._

_Are you wearing underwear? I want to know what’s touching that filthy little hole of yours_

When Percival doesn’t answer, Credence digs his fingers into the girl’s hair. 

\--

Two weeks later, Credence is at a Barnes and Noble book signing. He’s sloppily penning his name on thousands of copies of a ghostwritten bodice ripper, supposedly about his life. Whatever. It’s all rather the same, with young girls or elderly moms reddening at the sight of him and blubbering out confessions of adoration. Credence can barely remember to be kind, when he spots a familiar suited figure approaching. 

“Nice to see you again, Percival,” Credence says. Percival walks up to him with a natural stride, before shoving out an arm with Credence’s book attached.

“Would you sign?” Percival's face is closed off again, gaze resting at Credence’s sleeve. Heat starts in Credence’s belly. 

Credence grabs Percival’s hand, feeling the warm broadness of it. He slowly slides the book from Percival’s grip, and watches as Percival pinkens at the neck. 

“You haven’t been very responsive,” Credence sighs, opening his book to the Table of Contents. Percival says nothing. Credence writes: 

_It’s Saturday, I know you’re free. Wait for me at the backdoor at 3pm_

He doesn’t add a signature and shuts the book. “There you go.” Credence grins and pats Percival on his forearm. 

At 3:00 p.m., Credence opens the backdoor. Percival is standing outside, gray and black hair neatly placed and suited body wrapped in a wool coat. His nose is red from the cold. Credence feels a lance of excitement in his spine at the sight of him. 

Percival stares at Credence’s shoulder. “You didn’t sign-”

Credence grabs his face and kisses him. “Urk,” Percival says, shocked brown eyes gazing into Credence’s own. Credence can make out the thin red blood vessels in his sclerae, and the moisture that begins to gather in the corners of his eyes. He wants more. 

Credence breaks away, hands still gripping Percival’s head. “You want a signature?” he asks, tone a bit mocking. Percival continues to make wide-eyed eye contact. Credence’s hands run down from Percival’s head to his back, stopping at his firm buttocks. 

“You’re gonna have to work for it,” Credence explains, almost paternally. 

Percival’s eyes are still a bit wet when he replies: “But I waited in line.” 

“Don’t be stupid,” Credence hisses, pulling Percival’s unresisting body against him. “You’re not a kid. What are you, 40?”

Percival doesn’t shed a tear, but it’s a near thing. He looks positively overcome. 

Credence calls his driver, and a black car pulls up on the curb. Credence harshly grips Percival’s wrist and drags him into the backseat, locking the door behind him. He pulls up the divider. 

Credence is completely hard. He unzips his trousers and takes himself out of his boxers. He turns and Percival is staring at his crotch, unmoving. “What are you waiting for?” Credence asks. “Put your mouth on it.” 

“I don’t know how,” Percival admits. He’s shaking now. Credence hasn’t seen him shake before--he’s always appeared so collected, a sore thumb among thousands of excitable fans. Credence grips him by the jaw and squeezes his mouth open. 

“The first step is always to try,” he says kindly. A single tear does slip past Percival’s lashline, now, and Credence watches the handsome older man before him begin to cry in earnest. Credence ponders the merits of marking his face instead. 

Eventually, Percival haltingly allows Credence to guide his face down, still trembling. His tears wet Credence before his mouth does, and he starts to choke before Credence is even halfway in. 

“Shh, shh,” Credence hushes, grin widening. “Just relax.” Percival makes a gargled sound in response, and saliva slides to fall down onto Credence’s crotch. He sighs. 

“If you’re not going to use your mouth properly, then you’ll just have to use your ass, won’t you?” Credence asks. He’s being very reasonable, he thinks. Percival looks up at him through his damp lashes, wetness trailing from his eyes at a rapid pace. The car stops. 

“We’re at the hotel, Creed,” his driver says. “Geez dude, what are you doing to the poor guy back there?” 

“Just a bit of fun,” Credence responds. “Can you go in through the lower garage? I don’t want the mags to see this.” 

“Sure.” 

Percival is still bent over his crotch, and Credence doesn’t let him up, hand a steady pressure on Percival’s neck. Percival’s mouth spasms around him, and Credence grips him warningly. The car stops. 

“Alright Percival.” Credence lets up, and Percival pulls back, coughing. Credence grips him with two hands by the waist and watches Percival shoot him a frightened glance. He thinks to himself that he’d like to fuck this man in the car, on the floor, watch him squirm and cry and try to wiggle away and then give in, break-

His driver opens the door, young face smiling down at them. “Well would you look at that,” he says, amused. “Poor thing.” Percival looks at him as if he’ll save him. Credence drags him out of the car.

“Put a blanket over his head, would you?” Credence tucks himself back into his jeans. The driver complies, and Percival’s breathing hitches. Credence leads him to the elevator, punches buttons, and waits. 

“Why are you doing this?” Percival whispers, face covered by the blanket. 

“I just want to nut in you,” Credence replies, honestly. “It’ll be over soon, I promise.” Percival can’t see it, but Credence is smirking. 

They stop at his floor, and Credence wraps his arm around Percival’s blanketed form. Some B-lister sees him and waves.

“Hey,” Credence greets back, pulling Percival along with him. He jams his keys into his door and kicks it open, then kicks it closed. He surveys the marble floors, the velvet chaise, and the large bed.

“Where do you want your first assfucking?” Credence asks facetiously. “On your knees on the floor, missionary on the bed? Standing up in the shower? Your choice.”

“I’ll use my mouth,” Percival tries. Credence tuts. 

“No, I’m bored of that,” Credence declares. “You really have no fucking clue how to do it. You suck. Get on the bed.” He drags the blanket off of Percival, and pushes him encouragingly towards the bed. Percival walks like a man towards his hanging, once confident posture hunched in. 

Credence walks beside him, wrapping his waist in a hug. “If you didn’t want this,” Credence breathes against his ear, “you’d have run away. Screamed for the cops. Hit me.” 

“I’m just a fan,” Percival mumbles, voice broken. Credence nips his ear. 

He pushes Percival on the bed, and looks at his face. His mouth is red, and messy strands of hair rest against his forehead, stuck there by his sweat and tears. Percival is squeezing his eyes shut. 

Credence would try some foreplay, but he’s afraid he won’t last that long. He walks over to his dresser and takes out one of several bottles of lube. When he comes back, Percival’s turned on his side in the fetal position. 

“Hi sweetheart,” Credence croons. “Turn around for me, would you?” He grabs Percival by his midsection and roughly turns him around to face him, then spreads his clothed legs apart. “There we go,” he says. He pushes Percival up to the pillows, and rests his head against them. He stares in fascination as Percival’s miserable closed-eyed expression twitches, as if he’s trying so hard to pretend nothing’s happening. 

“You’re so pretty,” Credence soothes, unbuttoning Percival’s trousers. “Take your pants off, would you? I don’t want to rip them in half, they look expensive.” 

Percival complies, shaking hands fumbling at his pants. Credence watches as he slowly pushes them down, showing himself half-hard and peeking out of white underwear, pink skin showing through the wet fabric. Then his pants reach his knees, so slowly, and Credence sees the beginnings of black sock garters, two buckles each and clinging to Percival’s muscled calves.

“It’s like you dressed yourself up for me,” Credence coos. “Inside your suit too, huh?” Percival shakes his head, and his pants finally come off his shined leather shoes. Credence shoves his knees apart to get a better look. 

“You’re going to be very dirty down there,” Credence informs Percival, peeling his underwear down. “But I don’t mind. I’m being very good to you, aren’t I?” he asks, peering at Percival’s fluttering lashes and listening to his harsh breaths, as he tries to rein in his faltering sobbing. “Thank me.” 

Percival stays silent. 

Credence grips him in a fist, and Percival makes a sad moaning noise, twisting in the sheets. “Thank me,” Credence repeats. 

“Th-th-thank you,” Percival hiccups. 

Credence rips Percival’s underwear in half, feeling himself coming a bit too close. He stares at Percival’s hole, a little puffy and a little pink. He smiles.

“I’m very big, Percival,” Credence reasons. “Well. You know this. You tried to swallow me down and failed quite badly, didn’t you?” he listens to Percival’s heavy breathing. 

“If you don’t want to bleed on the sheets like a medieval bride, you’re going to have to do something about it.” He grabs Percival’s right hand and squeezes lube all over it, rubbing slickness between Percival’s fingers. “Go on.” 

Percival looks at him miserably, but he reaches behind himself. Credence pumps himself, watching, as Percival slips his index finger inside, lifting slightly off the bed to do it. 

_He’s taking forever,_ Credence thinks, as that one index finger slides slow as molasses inward and Percival bites at his lip. Credence grabs his hand and shoves the finger in all the way, then pushes it in and out. 

“There you go.” Percival’s silent sobs become a bit more audible, and Credence adds Percival’s middle finger. “Good boy,” Credence encourages, as he controls Percival’s right hand. “Look how eager you are.” 

By the time they get to the fourth finger, Percival has started to make the saddest little noises and protests: “stop,” he gasps, “it hurts, I can’t, please,” and Credence cannot stop smiling. 

“Shush, it’s okay,” Credence murmurs. “Let me.” He lubes up his hand and displaces Percival’s fingers with two of his own, scissoring and hooking inside with practiced ease. Percival arches up off the bed and yowls. 

Credence slicks himself up, one hand still working on Percival. “I think you’re ready,” he grunts. He grips Percival’s hard thighs and lines himself up, and the push of the head of him inside pulls a rush of convulsive gasps from Percival. 

It’s hot, overly wet from their previous activity, but tight enough that Credence’s eyes roll a bit and he keeps pushing forward. Percival’s whimpers reach a higher pitch, and Credence makes himself look at the man. Spit trickles from one corner of Percival’s mouth, and he’s gritting his teeth, desperate, weeping eyes looking straight at Credence. Credence almost comes then and there.

He bottoms out with a groan, and immediately starts thrusting in little spurts, with Percival twitching around him and eventually holding his own legs up, like he’s trying to make things easier for Credence. Credence looks at his face as it relaxes minutely, resigned. He tries to find the spot-

“Oh,” Percival breathes, eyes widening. “Agh,” he coughs out, when Credence does it again. And again. And again. 

Credence stares at him, at his surprised face, at the sweating paleness of his exposed collarbone. He leans down and licks at it, kisses it, nips at it, and Percival is moaning. 

Credence slams into him, rougher and rougher, pulling out all the way and surging back in, and Percival takes it, cock leaking and face scrunched up in agony. Credence stares at him, drowning in the feeling of his tight body and beautiful, crying face. Percival watches him back, big brown eyes wavering.

“Percival,” Credence groans, feeling his abdomen tighten. His right hand scrabbles from Percival’s sock garter to reach between them, and he pumps at Percival. Percival breaks eye contact and keens.

When he comes, he tightens around Credence like a vice, knees drawing up to himself as he coils inward. _None of that_ , Credence thinks. _I don’t want to finish yet_ , and he grips himself at the base, forcing himself in through it. 

Percival lies there at first, shaking. Then he protests again, like before, writhing, eyes watering anew: “too much, please, I can’t again,” and Credence grabs his face and forces him to _look at him_ , _look at me when I’m fucking the shit out of you, bitch-_

When he finally comes inside, he drives as deep as he can. He imagines himself filling the deepest parts of Percival, melting into him, grasping him in places that others can’t reach. Percival stares at him in shock at the feeling of it, oh, and Credence is still cumming- 

He goes limp when it’s over, and lies on top of Percival’s shivering body. 

Credence thinks he might also be crying a bit, but he has no fucking clue why. 

Warm hands come to pet at his back, as if to soothe him. He lifts himself up, and Percival is looking at him, really looking at him. 

“I don’t know why you did that, young man,” Percival rasps. “But I forgive you.”

\--

His publicist is calling. Credence knows it, because Lauryn Hill is singing, goddammit, why Lauryn Hill? 

“Hello?” 

“What in blazes have you done.” Newt Scamander’s voice is pitched nervously. “My god, Credence, I don’t even know what to say.”

“Then don’t say anything,” Credence responds. He looks back to his bed. It’s empty. “Where the _fuck_ did he go?” 

“By _he_ do you mean the man that you’ve subjected to nationwide scrutiny and likely _raped_ in your hotel room?” Newt’s voice grits out. “I mean, the homosexuality, yes, I can deal with that. _Out_ magazine could land you a spread, you could recover beautifully, segue into Broadway. But why, why in the everloving name of… why did you take a man against his will?” 

Credence pulls the phone away from his ear, and sees fifty messages in his inbox. He opens the ones from Newt, and sees a stream of pictures: 

Him outside the Barnes and Noble, gripping Percival by the ass. Percival is staring at him, face so confused he’s surprised there are no tears dripping from his chin. 

Him violently pulling Percival to a black car, phone to his ear. 

Percival’s hair a mess between his fingers as he kisses him; Percival looking more shocked than Credence remembered. 

And then one that he hasn’t seen: Percival exiting the hotel, hugging himself in his coat. His neck has a blotchy redness near the collarbone, and he is wild-eyed and appears to be staggering. 

“These pictures are HD,” Credence breathes. 

“What are you going to do now?” Newt asks. “I have a contract and I have to help you, obviously, but I am at my wit’s end Credence. I don’t think I even know you anymore.” 

“Isn’t he fucking beautiful?” Credence replies. “I’ve been so blind.”

Newt hangs up.

\--

Credence watches his hotel television. Some news channel caught up in the frenzy of his scandal has a reporter waiting outside Percival’s brownstone, and Credence bites his nails when Percival opens the door. He’s dressed in a white dress shirt and a vest and slacks, as neat as if nothing had happened. 

“Mr. Graves, are you going to press charges?” the reporter yells, pressing the microphone up against Percival. “Against the magazine, against Credence Barebone?” 

“No,” Percival responds, standing very straight and sure of himself. Credence doesn’t know how.

“How are you planning to recover?” another, perhaps more well-meaning reporter yells from the back. 

“I’m going to work now,” Percival says. “Sundays are my catch-up days.” 

“What do you have to say to the millions of fans that are turning their backs on Credence Barebone, after what he’s done to you? What do you have to say to Credence Barebone himself?” 

Percival looks at the camera, and Credence shivers. 

\--


End file.
